


Crossfire

by MyChemicalRachel



Category: Supernatural, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Crossover, M/M, Stiles Stilinski is a Winchester, Supernatural - Freeform, Superwolf, Teen Wolf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-02-03
Packaged: 2018-05-14 10:50:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5740846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyChemicalRachel/pseuds/MyChemicalRachel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean Winchester take a personal interest in a job when they hear that their cousin, Stiles, has been killed. But when they arrive in Beacon Hills, they realize nothing is what they thought it was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sam is just hanging up the phone when Dean comes into the bunker. Dean begins unpacking the salad he got for Sam, sliding it across the long table with a look of disgust, before pulling out his own cheeseburger. He digs in, and turns to Sam expectantly. “So?” He asks around a mouthful of food. Classy, as always. “Was that a case?”

“Um… No.” Sam prods his salad with a fork. There’s a frown on his face that makes him look both sad and uncomfortable. After a silence, he sighs and sets the utensil down, turning his uneasy gaze on Dean. “That was Travis-- The hunter in Oregon we helped out with a harpy problem last year. He told me that there have been quite a few stories revolving around California recently, some stuff he thought we might be interested in.”

Dean swallows, takes a drink, and gestures for Sam to continue. “A job,” He prompts. “Okay.”

But Sam shakes his head. “Not exactly. I mean… Sort of.”

Dean sighs. “Spit it out, Sammy. I’m getting old over here.”

And then Sam says, “Stiles is dead.”

That catches Dean’s attention and he sets down his burger slowly. “Stiles. Our cousin, Stiles? Aunt Claudia’s kid?”

Sam simply nods, looking more uncomfortable than ever. He always had a problem with this sharing-feelings thing with Dean, especially when it came to feelings about family. “Apparently a lot of different stories are going around,” He finally says, opting to sound professional, like this is just another case they’re working. “But from what I gather, there was a werewolf problem in Beacon Hills a couple months ago. Maulings, animal attacks, the whole nine yards.”

“Why didn’t we hear anything about this back then?” Dean demands.

Sam offers a shrug. “Probably because it only lasted a couple of weeks, and then stopped. By the time I caught wind of it, it was over. No more bodies means we didn’t have a case. I figured some other hunter took care of it, but Travis told me that it was a Mage.”

“A Mage?” Dean repeats dubiously. “Like… Black magic deal?”

Another shrug. “Most likely.”

Dean lets out a long breath. “So a werewolf and a Mage fight, and Stiles somehow got caught in the crossfire?”

Sam’s returning frown is enough assurance.

“Dammit,” Dean leans back in his chair, rubbing a hand across his face. “We haven’t seen him since Aunt Claudia’s funeral. He was, what? Twelve? He’s got to be eighteen now, right?”

“Seventeen,” Sam corrects, and that doesn’t make Dean feel any better.

“He was just a kid.” Dean feels his jaw clenching, tightening, as he leans forward to rest his elbows on the table. His food is long forgotten. “So we’re going to Beacon Hills,” He decides. “Gank the son of a bitch who killed him.”

His statement doesn’t leave room for argument, but it doesn’t look like Sam disagrees. Instead, his little brother just nods and pushes his salad back farther on the table. “I’m gonna grab some stuff, you call Bobby and let him know we’re going off the grid for a few days. Then we can leave.”

…

The town isn’t much different than Dean remembers, though it’s been close to five years since he’d been back here. He’d gotten the call from Bobby when Mary’s sister, Claudia, died. They’d been on a poltergeist job in Tennessee when it happened and Sam and Dean barely had time to make it across the country to insignificant Beacon Hills, California, just in time to change into their suits and head to the funeral.

Dean remembers awkwardly standing near the back while his Aunt Claudia’s friends smiled sadly at each other and exchanged condolences. He remembers watching as Claudia’s husband stood near the casket, teary-eyed but otherwise stoic.

Above everything else, Dean remembers Stiles. He’d only met his little cousin a few times in his life, but the kid was unforgettable. Stiles wasn’t inside the church during the viewing. He opted instead for sitting outside, where Dean found him in the driver’s side of a old blue Jeep. Stiles didn’t acknowledge Dean when the older man climbed into the passenger's seat beside him. He didn’t talk, but Dean did. He told Stiles about his own mom and how he’d lost her at a young age, how he thought he had to be strong for his dad and Sammy, and how nobody ever told him it was okay to be sad about the gaping hole in his chest where his mom had been. But it was okay, he told Stiles, to be sad. He told Stiles that nobody expected Stiles to be strong. And Dean remembers how Stiles had turned to him with wide brown eyes and just started to cry. That was where John Stilinski found his son when the funeral ended-- Curled up in the front of the old Jeep, asleep in Dean’s lap.

Now, as the Impala idles in front of the vaguely familiar house, Dean remembers it all. The street is quiet, as the sun sets on the horizon, casting a brilliant orange glow on the sidewalks. The house is mostly dark, but light escapes from a window on the first floor.

“You ready?” Sam asks. He watches Dean carefully, as if waiting for his older brother to break down.

But Dean just shakes his head. “Ready to talk to Uncle John, who’s already lost his wife, and now his son? No, I’m not ready.” He opens the car door anyway, stepping out. “Let’s get this over with.”

The house is silent for a long time after Sam knocks, and Dean fidgets nervously. When the door finally swings open, Dean immediately recognizes John Stilinski. He’s older than Dean remembers him, but he looks good, considering. He’s wearing what Dean realizes is a police uniform, adorned to completion with a Sheriff’s badge. He looks tired and his belt is gone. Dean figures he just got off work.

John’s expression is one of confusion first, morphing into recognition and then ultimately surprise. “Wow. Sam, Dean. It’s good to see you.”

Sam steps forward, taking the lead. “Yeah, it’s good to see you, too.” He offers a smile, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You mind if we come in?”

John steps aside, ushering them into a small living room. “Can I get you a beer or something?” When they both turn down the drink, John sits down across from them, looking wary. “So how have you boys been? I haven’t seen you in… Five years?”

“We’re good,” Sam says, and it’s only partly a lie. They’re not living the American dream, but they’re both still alive, so that’s good. “How are you holding up?”

The skin around John’s eyes gets all crinkly, like he’s concentrating. “I’m alright,” He says with a half-srug. “It’s been a few rough months, but I can’t really complain.”

Dean can’t help but gape at the older man. He’s taking the death of his son extremely well. “I’m really sorry for your loss,” Dean finds himself saying. He averts his gaze, finding it easier to watch the coffee table between them than meeting those bright brown eyes that remind him of the twelve year old Stiles he remembers from all those years ago. “I can’t begin to express how sorry I am. I wish there was something we could have done.”

John is eerily silent and when Dean finally looks up again, a blank look of confusion is the only thing he sees. John’s eyebrows are furrowed, his mouth downturned in a frown. “What the hell are you on about?” The older man asks. “What did I lose?”

Sam and Dean exchange a look, a completely silent conversation. And then Dean focuses his steady gaze on John. “Stiles,” He says slowly. “Uncle John, we heard the news. About Stiles dying.”

A startled laughing sound escapes John’s throat, and he looks between the brothers like they’ve gone crazy. “Stiles isn’t dead,” Their uncle tells them. After another silent exchange between the Winchesters, John laughs again. “What made you boys think Stiles was dead?”

“Hunters,” Sam says easily, though he’s still trying to grapple at the fact that he was wrong-- Stiles is very much alive. “There were some rumors going around about a werewolf problem, that turned into a Mage problem, and we heard Stiles got killed in the process.”

John looks extremely uncomfortable for a long time. He fidgets on the couch like he’s sitting on nails, glancing at both brothers and then deciding it better to watch the carpet. “There was a werewolf problem,” John admits finally. “But it’s taken care of now.”

“And the Mage?” Dean prompts. “Is that part of the story true?”

Another long minute of silence passes and then John lets out a long breath. “Look, I don’t know the details,” He says. “I think you should ask Stiles.”

“Alright,” Dean nods, then glances around like maybe the kid will emerge from the shadows and answer all of their questions. “Where is he?”

John releases another long suffering sigh, but this time it’s the sound Dean would expect coming from the father of a seventeen year old. “He’s at his boyfriend’s house.”

…

Stiles wants to lick Derek’s abs. He’s watching from his seat at Derek’s kitchen table as his boyfriend paces the length of the floor in front of him. There’s a textbook open in Derek’s arms and the glasses perched on his nose make him look so sophisticated and intelligent, but the image is ruined because he’s only wearing boxers and a pair of socks. And Stiles is amazed once again how fucking lucky he is that he can call this gorgeous man his boyfriend. And right now, his amazing boyfriend is helping him study for a Biology test.

It was Derek’s idea, surprisingly. Stiles had wanted to spend the entire weekend alternating between shower sex and spooning while marathoning Star Wars, but Derek had to be  _ mature  _ and ensure that Stiles passed his Senior year of High School. So they had compromised; For every practice test question Stiles got right, Derek removed a single article of clothing. If he got an answer wrong, Derek would put something back on. Stiles had never been so excited to study in his entire life.

When Stiles answers another question right, Derek smirks and removes his glasses. Stiles throws his arms up and grins. “I got it! Drop your boxers, big guy!”

Derek rolls his eyes, but he manages to drop the textbook on the table right before Stiles is tackling him, shoving him backwards, and suddenly his body is pinned on the couch beneath Stiles. He doesn’t complain when Stiles’ head dips lower, their lips attaching. “I studied,” Stiles says, and his voice is low, almost breathless already, as his hips move down against Derek’s. “Now I get the incentive, right?”

Derek doesn’t answer, just rising to kiss Stiles again. It’s slow and sweet, yet tantalizing and exhilarating, all at once. Stiles trails his fingers across the sharp line of Derek’s jaw, down his neck where he feels the older man’s pulse thrumming erratically. His fingertips trail down his chest, across the toned abdomen, and dipping just below the hem of the boxers when there’s a pounding at the apartment door. Stiles jumps, startled, but Derek drags their mouths back together. “Ignore it,” He commands, the sound nothing but a low rumble of pleasure in his chest, reverberating through him and turning Stiles on so much the younger boy lets out an embarrassing whimper. Derek doesn’t seem to care because he’s biting down roughly on Stiles’ lower lip, sucking it into his mouth, reveling in the moans he’s eliciting.

But the person at the door doesn’t seem to care either, because another knock sounds, this time accompanied by an unfamiliar voice. “Stiles! Stiles, you in there?”

Stiles sits up again, straddling Derek’s thighs. He sighs. “Who the hell is that? And have they no consideration?”

Derek is prepared to tell Stiles again to ignore the door and then drag him off to the bedroom to have his way, but Stiles is already slipping away, heading toward the door.

…

The boy at the door is taller, lankier, and older than Dean remembers. But he would recognize those honey brown eyes anywhere. “Stiles,” He says.

The kid brushes a hand through his hair, which is already mussed and messy. Dean tries to ignore the way his lips are red and swollen, intentionally averting his gaze from the awkward way Stiles fidgets in his too-tight jeans. The kid seems unbothered, though, narrowing his eyes first at Dean and then Sam. “Do I know you?”

Before Dean has a chance to reply, a man is appearing behind Stiles, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers, looking just as disheveled as Stiles. And Dean can’t ignore the facts in front of him any longer. “Sorry, who the hell are you?” Dean knows it’s irrational, but there’s this inexplicable surge of protectiveness swelling inside his chest. Stiles is obviously not the same little kid Dean remembers, but the half-naked guy behind him is older by at least a few years and in his mind, Stiles is still the broken and sad twelve year old Dean left behind.

The stranger furrows his eyebrows, placing a protective hand on Stiles’ lower back.

Dean is ready to rip the stubbled man a new one for even touching his little cousin when Stiles turns and says, “It’s fine, Derek.”

Derek looks constipated and unhappy, but he nods once before disappearing into the apartment. Then Stiles’s focus is back on Dean. “So?” He asks expectantly.

“You probably don’t remember us,” Sam says. “It’s been awhile. We’re Mary Winchester’s kids.”

Stiles’ mouth falls slack and Dean can see the exact moment of recognition as it flits across the kid’s features, and then Stiles is grinning and pulling Sam in for a hug. “Holy shit, I haven’t seen you in years.” Dean earns a hug, too, before Stiles pulls the door open farther. “Here, come on in.”

Dean and Sam follow him into the small apartment. Dean watches as Stiles collects a textbook and a pair of glasses from the kitchen table, gesturing for them to sit. Stiles kicks at a pile of clothes on the ground. “Sorry about the mess,” He says, sounding mostly unapologetic. “I was studying.”

Dean snorts, pointing to the clothes. “Studying what exactly?”

Stiles flushes, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. Luckily, he’s saved from any further embarrassment when Derek saunters into the room. He’s wearing a pair of plaid pajama pants and a Tshirt now, but Dean still eyes him warily.

“Dean,” Stiles says, catching the gaze. “Sam, this is my boyfriend, Derek.” Then he points at the brothers. “These are my cousins.”

Derek offers a stiff acknowledging nod. “Hi.”

Dean scoffs, earning a sharp, unapproving glance from Sam, who puts on his best smile and says, “Nice to meet you, Derek.”

Derek tilts his head toward the living room, eyes on Stiles. It’s like a silent question and Stiles nods. “I’ll be right back,” He tells the brothers, and follows Derek out of the room. Sam quietly berates Dean for eavesdropping, but Dean waves him off and tells him to shut up so he can hear.

“No,” Stiles is saying indignantly. “That’s not possible, okay? They’re my family. They won’t hurt me.”

“I don’t trust them,” Derek replies and it’s almost a growl in his voice.

“Aww,” Stiles coos. “You’re adorable when you’re acting all protective.” Then he chuckles. “Okay dude, I get it. We don’t trust them. But we can at least find out what the hell they want before we sic Scott on them, alright?”

“They’re here for  _ you _ , Stiles,” Derek says. “And I will kill them before I let them hurt you.”

“And I love you for that, Derek,” Stiles retorts. “I really do. But I think I can handle myself, especially when it comes to a couple of hunters.”

Dean freezes. He looks over at Sam, whose wide-eyed gaze reassures that he just heard Stiles correctly. John Stilinski always knew about the family business, since he married into it with Claudia. But when Claudia and John decided to raise a family away from the hunting, Dean just assumed Stiles had grown up blind to the whole thing. Now, as he hears his cousin call them hunters, like it’s a bitter, bad word, he doesn’t know what to think.

Before he can do anything, though, Stiles is rounding the corner, coming back into the room with a frown. He wrings his hands in front of him, looking nervous. “I’m really sorry about this, guys,” Stiles says, and he truly does sound apologetic. Dean stands up, ready to flee or fight, but Stiles calmly raises his hand and all Dean sees is white everywhere before the blinding light is pulled through tunnel vision and everything goes black.

…

Dean feels hungover. His stomach twists and the scent of dirt fills his lungs. His head is throbbing painfully and as he twists his wrists, he comes to find that they’re tied behind his back. “Son of a bitch,” He groans. “Sammy?”

“Yeah,” Comes Sam’s dry reply from somewhere to his left. When he manages to raise his head and look around, he sees that they’re both tied to trees. The forest? Darkness spreads around them, but Dean realizes that there is definitely bark rubbing against the flesh of his arms, rope biting into his wrists. Whoever tied these knots wanted to make sure they didn’t get out.

Who put them here, anyway? Dean racks his memory for something, but comes up blank. He remembers seeing Stiles, but that’s it. Stiles couldn’t have possibly done this… Right?

A pretty blonde-haired girl appears in his line of vision. She folds her arms across her chest and frowns at Dean. “Hey,” She calls. “They’re waking up.”

Dean finds that he isn’t really surprised when he recognizes Stiles’ boyfriend, as Derek comes over to the girl. “Thank you, Erica.”

Erica nods dutifully. “He’s going to be okay, right?”

For a fleeting moment, Dean thinks she’s asking about him. But of course she’s not. Derek looks determined when he raises a hand to place it on the side of Erica’s neck. “I won’t let anything happen to him.”

Erica looks relieved at his answer and takes that as her cue to leave. Dean isn’t sure where she goes, she just kind of vanishes amongst the shadows between the trees. Derek turns to Dean and Sam, dropping down so he’s eye-level with them as they sit on the ground. His eyes flicker to each in turn before they turn a violent red color. Of fucking course, Dean thinks. This son of a bitch is a werewolf. An Alpha, it seems. Dean wonders how the hell Stiles ever got mixed up in this when Derek stands again. He lets out a suffering sigh, bringing a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose between two fingers. “Scott, I told you to keep him in the car.”

Dean twists his neck around, trying to understand who Derek is talking to, but Stiles bursts through a few trees into the small clearing. He looks ravenous. “Fuck you, Derek. I’m not waiting in the car.”

Another boy follows close behind, looking sheepish. “I’m sorry, Derek.” Dean assumes that to be Scott.

But Derek doesn’t seem concerned with the boys lack of following directions. He turns to Stiles instead. “Please go wait in the car.”

Stiles scoffs. “Yeah, no. Sorry, big guy. Not happening.”

“Stiles,” Derek growls. His eyes flash a vibrant red that terrifies even Dean, but Stiles just gapes at him.

“Did you just try to use your Alpha power on me?” He asks slowly, and Dean can practically feel the anger emanating off his cousin. “I can’t believe you. I’m your mate, Derek. Not one of your fucking pups. You don’t get to do that Alpha command thing with me. That shit might work on them, but--”

“Stiles,” The other boy says softly, and Stiles’ eyes flare a brilliant violet when he snaps his head around. “What, Scott?”

Scott looks like he might piss himself. Dean feels the fear wash over him, not just at the sight of Stiles’ eyes, but because his entire body seems to glow the same color, emitting a purple light. Scott whimpers.

The sound seems to reverberate in Stiles’ ears and he blinks, the color immediately returning to it’s usual brown. The light coming from his skin seems to fade, too, but it doesn’t go away completely. “I’m sorry,” Stiles murmurs, shaking his head. “I didn’t mean to scare you, Scotty.” Scott steps forward and Dean watches as the boy tilts his head to one side, baring his throat to Stiles. Holy shit, Dean thinks. This kid is a werewolf and he’s submitting to  _ Stiles _ . Who is still kind of glowing.

“What the hell is going on?” Sam voices the question bouncing around in Dean’s brain.

All eyes flash to them, like the Winchester’s had been forgotten for a moment. “Go home, Scott,” Stiles orders. He runs a hand over his friend’s neck. “I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”

Scott nods his farewell to both Stiles and Derek before disappearing through the trees after Erica. Now, Stiles turns to Dean and Sam. “I’ll handle you in a second,” He says, holding up one finger. And then he looks at Derek. “I’m sorry,” He says. “I shouldn’t have let my emotions take control like that. You are my Alpha.”

“But you’re not one of my betas,” Derek replies. “I can’t control you like I can them. And I’m sorry for trying. You have every right to be here.”

A small smile twitches on Stiles’ lips and he reaches out run the tip of his fingers across Derek’s jaw. It’s a simple touch, but so intimate that Dean almost feels embarrassed for watching. But just as quickly, it’s over and Stiles is crouching to face him. Derek hovers a few feet behind, arms folded stiffly, just watching.

Stiles catches Dean’s gaze, meeting it evenly. The kid who was excited to see his cousins earlier is gone, replaced by the man who stands before them now. “Why are you here?”

“You tell me,” Dean retorts. “You’re the one who tied me to a tree.”

But he knows that’s not what Stiles is asking. He’s asking why they’re in Beacon Hills. Sam answers instead. “We heard you were dead,” He admits. “We came to comfort your dad.” There’s a silence that hangs between them for a long time and Dean knows that the unsaid “ _ and hunt down whatever killed you _ ” is there, too.

Stiles’ brow furrows. “Who told you I was dead?”

“Just another hunter,” Sam says. “It’s not really important who. What’s important is what they said.” His eyes flicker to Derek, his jaw tightening. “They said there was a werewolf in town a few months back, killing people.

“The feral omega,” Derek states.

“We took care of it,” Stiles adds.

“That’s not what we heard,” Dean argues. “We heard that some powerful Mage took care of it. And you got killed in the crossfire.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, standing up and brushing his pants off. “Dude, your sources are all wrong. Well, kind of wrong.” He shrugs. “There was a feral omega, and a Mage, but as you can see, I’m alive.”

“It was you,” Sam says, and he’s using that voice he does when he’s figuring stuff out. “The purple glowing a few minutes ago, the eyes. You’re the Mage.”

Dean gapes first at his brother, and then his cousin. “You’re a witch? Stiles, hooking up with werewolves is bad enough. Dipping into black magic is just downright stupid.”

Stiles looks offended. “I’m not a witch,” He says. “I’m a druid. Big difference, dude. Witches steal their power, they obtain it through incantations and spells. The druid stuff is in my blood, it’s a gift given to me by the tree.”

Dean thinks Stiles is crazy because seriously, a tree gave him glowing power? But Sam looks utterly captivated. “He’s right,” Sam says. “Druids use white magic. It’s a source of good, not evil.”

“And them--” Stiles gestures at Derek, but Dean assumes he means to encompass Scott and Erica, as well. “They are not a threat.”

Dean scoffs. “They’re werewolves, Stiles. They aren’t the good guys.”

Derek growls, baring his teeth a little, but Stiles’ glowing purple skin intimidates Dean a little more. “They helped me kill the feral omega who was murdering people. Scott alone has saved my life more times than I can count. They’re not monsters, Dean. If they were, I would have killed them myself.”

Silence falls over the clearing, nothing but the distant sound of rustling leaves weighing heavy between the four of them. Eventually, it’s Sam who breaks it. “If you untie us and we reach for our guns, what happens?”

Stiles meets his gaze steadily. “Either Derek rips your throat out, or I rip your spine out and use it to hang you with.” Dean outwardly flinches. “Because you’re a danger to my pack, and I won’t let you hurt them.”

“What about the scenario where you untie us,” Dean says. “And we leave town? You never hear from us again, save for the occasional Christmas cards and family reunions.”

Stiles watches them for a long time, glancing back at Derek, before sitting down in front of Dean. “You’re my family,” The kid eventually says, and even in the dark, Dean sees so much of his Aunt Claudia in those honey brown eyes. “You know how it is to lose family. With my mom gone, it’s just me and my dad. But I made a family, found it on my own, with Derek and the others. In the end, I’m no more human than Derek is. And you’ve got Sammy, and Bobby, but you’ve got me, too. We’re blood, Dean. So tell me; Would you kill me?”

Every hunter instinct is telling him to scream yes, because this kid is part of a werewolf pack and his skin glows purple sometimes and he has more power in his little finger than most Mages have in their entire body. He is not human. But as he watches Dean right now, Dean knows that Stiles is still family, and he’s not a monster.

So the hunter sighs, shaking his head. He hopes the werewolf can hear the truth in his heartbeat when he looks into Stiles’ eyes and says, “No. I wouldn’t.”

Stiles seems pleased by this answer because he stands up. He flicks his wrist and Dean immediately feels the ties binding him to the tree loosen. He shakes them off and stands up. His legs are kind of asleep and he leans against Sam, but he doesn’t feel the urge to run or fight or kill as he watches the kid.

Stiles looks back anxiously, like waiting to see if Dean snaps and tries to gut him anyway. But when he steps forward, one hand outstretched, Stiles takes it. “You be good, kid,” Dean says. “Keep your puppies fenced in. If we hear about any rogue Mages or werewolves in these parts, we’ll be back.”

Stiles smiles. “You could come back other times, you know. Come back for my graduation in a few months. Or when Derek and I get married. Or Christmas. Or just to say hi. You’re welcome here anytime, as long as your guns are put away.”

Dean chuckles. “Yeah, we’ll definitely think about it.” And it surprises Derek the most because he can’t hear a single irregularity in Dean’s heart.

Derek wonders if this could be a mistake, letting Sam and Dean leave peacefully. They’re hunters and they’re dangerous. But they’re still Stiles’ family and they don’t pose any immediate threat to the pack or his mate. So when Dean actually shakes Derek’s hand, Derek isn’t really sure what to think. The only thing he knows for certain is that this won’t be the last he’s seen of Sam and Dean Winchester.


	2. Changes

Stiles would never admit it to Derek, or any other member of his pack for that matter, but he kind of misses Sam and Dean. They’d parted in the clearing of the forest three years ago, after Dean gave Stiles a phone number and said, “Call any time, kid,” and Stiles hadn’t seen the Winchesters since. And it wasn’t for lack of trying on Stiles’ end. He called Dean at least once every few months to update his cousins on… well, just about everything.

He called them when they found out Lydia was something called a Banshee. Sam and Stiles had talked on the phone for hours after that, exchanging notes and extensive research on everything about the creature that Lydia was. With Sam’s help, Stiles taught Lydia how to control her abilities and even how to direct her scream like a weapon. 

Stiles called when he graduated High school. He invited them to attend, and even reserved two seats between his father and Scott’s mom in case they showed up, but they’d been tied up with a case in Maine dealing with a Wendigo. Sam even called back the next day to apologize for missing the ceremony.

And of course, Stiles called every once and awhile just to tell his cousins that he was constantly learning to control his Druid abilities and reassure them that the pack was behaving. Dean had lectured him profusely when Stiles shared the news that he was training to take on the role of Hale Pack Emissary, warning him the dangers and responsibilities of advising a pack of werewolves. Dean had just huffed incoherently when Stiles told him Derek had already given him a pretty similar lecture.

Through the years, a lot changed for Stiles. He graduated, moved out of his father’s house and into Derek’s loft, and attended the Beacon County police academy to take a job at the BHPD with his dad. It took some getting used to, but Stiles was growing up and he was settling nicely into the permanent role of the Alpha’s mate, even learning to accept and enjoy the title “Pack Mom” that the betas had placed upon him.

In all honesty, Stiles loved his life. He loved that he had an incredible werewolf boyfriend who woke him up with fresh coffee and kisses every morning, regardless of Stiles’ morning breath. He loved that he was preparing to become the pack Emissary and was settling into his magic. He loved his pups, his family, and knowing that he was an important part of the pack even though he was just mostly human.

But he missed his cousins. Talking to them on the phone so often was a reminder that the Winchesters were out there and, even though he was never really close to them, they were blood. They were family. And being part of a werewolf pack made him realize just how important family is.

So when Stiles’ phone rings one Saturday morning as he’s shoveling toast into his mouth, lighting up with Dean’s name, Stiles grins. He pushes the talk button and presses it against his ear. “Hey dudes.”

“Stiles!” Dean exclaims. His voice is light, but there’s an undertone he doesn’t like and Stiles is instantly on edge.

“Dean,” Stiles says. He swallows his toast, narrowing his eyes at the counter. “What’s wrong?”

Dean lets out a sharp, nervous laugh. “What makes you think something’s wrong?”

“Come on, man,” Stiles says. “You suck at lying. Just tell me what’s up.”

“Umm…” Dean sounds distracted, anxious, and Stiles wants to prompt him for actual words, but he simply waits.

Derek wanders into the room wearing only a pair of jeans. His hair is still wet from the shower. He quirks one impressive eyebrow at Stiles, nodding toward the phone. He can undoubtedly hear Dean, too, and he’s curious. Stiles shakes his head and puts the device on speaker so his boyfriend doesn’t have to eavesdrop.

“Look, nothing is wrong,” Dean eventually sighs. And it sounds like the truth. “But we need to see you.”

Stiles feels his eyes widen in surprise. Not once in three years has his cousin suggested a visit and this now doesn’t really sound like a social call. Derek looks just as shocked, but guarded. He’s still wary of the hunters, especially on his own land.

“Okay,” Stiles agrees. “When?”

There’s a sound in the background, muffled and indistinguishable, and Dean groans, muttering, “Dammit, again? Look, we’re about thirty miles outside of town. We’ll be there soon.”

There’s another sound and before Stiles or Derek can say anything more, the line is going dead. Stiles hangs up the phone, leaving it on the counter. “So that was weird,” He states.

Derek nods. Stiles pours him some coffee and hands it over, which Derek gladly accepts in return for a soft kiss. “I guess we’ll find out what he wants soon enough.”

“He said thirty miles, right?” Stiles asks. He reaches over and takes the mug from Derek, setting it down tenderly on the counter. And then he moves into Derek’s personal space, palms flat on his mate’s bare stomach. “That’s like a half hour out, at least.” Derek hums in agreement when Stiles leans closer to press his lips to Derek’s throat. “And we really don’t have anything to do this morning.” Stiles bites down gently and Derek growls. Stiles grins and considers this a win and, grabbing Derek’s hand, drags him back toward the bedroom.

…

Stiles is just pulling his jeans back on when there’s a knock at the door. He pauses to press one last chaste kiss to Derek’s lips before dashing out of the room to answer it. When Stiles pulls the apartment door open, he freezes.

Dean looks pretty much the same as the last time Stiles saw him, maybe shorter hair, maybe a bit rougher around the edges, and Sam looks tired, his hair definitely longer, looking tangled and unwashed. But what makes Stiles stop is the blue and gray blanket squirming in Dean’s arms.

Stiles is rendered speechless, unable to form words let alone actually move his body. Sam awkwardly clears his throat and gestures to the loft behind Stiles. “Can we come in?”

Stiles startles when Derek’s voice answers from right behind him. “Yeah, come on in.” He places a hand on the small of Stiles’ back, leading him away from the doorway so Sam and Dean can pass. Sam falls ungracefully onto the couch while Dean bounces a bit with the lump in his arms. “Is that…?” Derek doesn’t finish his question, but he points to the baby Dean is holding.

Dean seems to understand the question and nods solemnly.

Derek looks torn, like Stiles has never seen him before. His eyes are wide, bright and alert, but his jaw is clenched tight. And then he softly asks, “Can I hold them?”

Dean all but tosses the baby into Derek’s arms, glad to finally be rid of the wriggling being. Stiles steps closer so he can see the small face, scrunched up and looking close to tears. And when Derek flashes his eyes Alpha red at the kid, Stiles is prepared to slap him because that’s probably going to terrify the poor child. But instead, the babies eyes flicker a golden color in return.

“Werewolf,” Stiles realizes. Derek simply nods and lifts the bundle to rub his nose along the baby’s cheek. Scent marking, Stiles realizes. He whirls around to face Dean and Sam. “Where the hell did you get a werewolf baby!?”

Dean falls onto the couch next to his brother, looking exhausted. He sighs, stretches, and then collapses into the cushions. “A hunt,” He admits, but hurries on before Stiles can start arguing. “We didn’t kill her pack.”

“It was another hunter,” Sam adds, yawning around the words. “Far as we can tell, it was just the baby and her mom. They were omegas, probably recently abandoned or had just escaped a pack. The mom was dead by the time we got there.”

“And you just found the baby?” Stiles wonders. “She wasn’t hurt by the hunter?”

Dean looks ashamed when he focuses his gaze on the floor. “We assume the other hunter just left her to die.” Stiles understands Dean’s shame. It was one of their kind after all who caused this baby to lose what little family she had. As if Dean can hear Stiles’ thoughts, the older cousin meets his eyes. “That’s why we brought her here. We can’t just take her to the authorities. She needs special care, she needs a family who knows what she is.”

Derek is nodding. “She needs a pack.”

Stiles is stunned as he realizes what they’re all saying. “Holy shit, you want Derek and I to adopt her?”

“You have a pack,” Dean states, watching Stiles with the look his dad gave him that time he had a pet boa. It’s that  _ ‘you have a responsibility now, Stiles’ _ look. “A strong alpha, a very capable Emissary.”

“I’m not the Emissary yet,” Stiles argues, but it’s futile. His chest aches just watching Derek bounce around with the small bundle. It’s sickeningly beautiful and domestic.

Pushing to his feet, Dean comes to stand directly in front of Stiles. “You have a family here, Stiles. Somehow, through all the supernatural shit that comes your way, you’ve managed to settle down, to make a life for yourself. You can offer her a home, a pack, safety.”

Stiles is, in all honesty, fucking terrified. “I’m only twenty,” He says softly. “I’m not old enough to raise a kid.”

“You won’t be in it alone,” Dean promises, and his gaze finds Derek. Stiles looks, too. His mate is whispering to the baby, her tiny fingers reaching out to brush along the stubble on his cheeks. “Besides,” Dean smirks, nudging Stiles’ arm. “You’ve always got me and Sammy.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “I haven’t seen you guys in three years,” He reminds them. “And then you only came to visit because you wanted to hand over a supernatural infant like some weird belated birthday present.”

Dean grins, but there’s a sadness in his eyes. “Like I said, kid. You managed to make a life for yourself. Sam and I don’t have that. Like it or not, hunting is our life. The people who stick with us usually don’t have a long lifespan.”

Stiles glances over to Sam, who is passed out on the couch. He looks more relaxed than Stiles has ever seen him. He finds himself nodding slowly.

“Just promise you’ll take care of her,” Dean says.

“Okay,” Stiles manages, sighing. “Yeah. I promise.”

Derek looks up, meeting Stiles’ gaze. He closes the small distance between them, smiling down at Stiles. “Do you want to hold her?”

And Stiles feels panic swell up in him again. But he reaches his arms out and the child is passed into them. She squirms a little but settles down after a moment, swinging her tiny fists around. “We are so not ready for this,” Stiles grumbles.

He feels Derek’s arms around his waist and he leans into the warm touch. “We’re going to be fine,” Derek promises.

“No,” Stiles spins around to face him, wide-eyed. “I mean, look at the apartment. We have literally nothing for her. We are not ready for this. You need to go shopping.  _ Now _ .” Stiles pushes Derek toward the apartment door. “I’ll call Scott, his mom probably has his old crib still in the attic we can borrow. Dean, get ahold of my dad. I need all the old boxes of my baby clothes and toys. Shit, we’re gonna need food.”

And as Stiles shakes Sam awake, demanding, “Yeah, I know you’re tired. Get up, Sleeping Beauty. I need you to go buy me baby formula and diapers,” he realizes that maybe he can actually do this. It’s not like the betas call him “Pack mom” for nothing. He’s got this. Stiles looks down at the baby cradled in his arms, her tiny face alight with a smile, like she’s silently cheering him on. Yeah, Stiles thinks. He can totally do this.


End file.
